


amaurophilia.

by thepapernautilus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aftercare, Anonymous Sex, Blindfolds, Body Worship, Comfort Sex, F/M, Light BDSM, Mildly Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Power Play, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rope Bondage, Situational Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25131532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: “This will only happen one way,” he tells you. “I will blindfold you and truss up your wrists. If you try to escape, I’ll be gone before you can see me. I will do…anything you ask of me, but you cannot see my identity.”The Warrior of Light doesn't know who the Crystal Exarch is, and at this point, she could hardly care less.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Reader, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 18
Kudos: 233
Collections: Final Fantasy XIV - Crystal Exarch x WoL Recommendations





	amaurophilia.

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Bondage, power play, slight humiliation, blindfolds, mildly dubious consent (there's a safe word), masking/anonymous sex.

In your defense, you hadn’t known you’d try to kiss him when he knocked on your quarter’s door in the Pendants. It had been a long, _long_ couple of days; the needless gore of the attack on the Crystarium by Vauthry had left you more worn than the other countless battles you’d participated in yet; Ardbert and the Scions had tried to comfort you in their own ways, Alisaie with her direct probing questions, Urianger with tea and promises of light-hearted stories of the fae, and Thancred with a silent knowing, but you brushed them off. _I just need some sleep,_ you’d say with a smile. But sleep never came when behind your closed lids you saw the albino faces of countless sin eaters, hungry and starving for fresh aether, and the way blood tinged their feathers scarlet and the stench of dead aether floating across the battlegrounds. Food turned to ash in your mouth, no matter the hunger gnawing your stomach. 

It was well past midnight; the stars wink sleepily outside your window as you finish the final notes on your journal entry. You’re cuddled up in an oversized white tunic and pantalettes, the blanket from the bed wrapped around you to take away the chill in the air. As you set down your quill, a knock on the door echoes through the drafty room. Tucking the blanket around you protectively, you stand up and open the door.

“Good evening,” The Crystal Exarch says gently. “Have I woken you?” 

“No, not at all. Um, come in, please,” you stammer, moving aside for him. He enters, standing by your dining table as you close the door, and as an afterthought, secure the latch. As he moves, you become aware of the unique scent clinging to his robes; fresh beeswax, ink, and a scent you can only describe as pure _aether_ ; like atmosphere before a lightning strike, a freshly cast Flare, or gunpowder. It makes your hair stand on end as you face him. 

“How are you fairing?” He asks you, taking a seat in an armchair. You sit across from him at the dining table, legs crossed, conscious of the blanket wrapped around you. “Alisaie worries for you, and bade me to check on you. She says you haven’t been eating well, or sleeping. She says you won’t listen to the Scions, but perhaps I might be able to persuade you.”

“Alisaie worries overly much,” you mumble. The young Elezen missed _nothing_. Alphinaud was no slouch himself for the details, but Alisaie had an emotional sensitivity that her harsh exterior didn’t belie. “I am fine, Exarch. Thank you for your concern.”

“Are you?” he asks flatly. “I have no right to ask you to be truthful to me, but you do owe it to your companions. They worry for you. Your health is as theirs, and while this battle has battered down us all, they are— _we_ are unused to such things taking a toll on you, Warrior of Darkness.” 

The observations, and the invocation of your title, prick at you like an errant cactaur needle; you’re suddenly on your feet, wanting something to _do_ besides be condescended by a man you barely knew who had gotten you into this very predicament. You are not a woman of words; you prefer your actions speak for you, and it was time the Exarch came to understand that about you. 

“You’re right on one thing,” you snap waspishly, “you have _no right_ to ask the truth from me.” You approach him, stalking him with the practice of a hunter long familiar in their art. Perhaps the battle really has frayed you beyond reckoning, and you take a risk you hadn’t thought yourself capable; you reach up and clutch the fabric of his hood with your fingers, fisting the folds. “Not when you have concealed your very identity from me.” 

He grabs your wrist with his crystallized hand; it is ice cold, but his thumb rubs soothing circles into the fine bones of your wrist. You shudder involuntarily at his touch. “Even if you lift my hood,” he tells you calmly, “you wouldn’t recognize the man beneath.” 

His confidence irritates you, and in your hasty anger you grab his chin and tilt it up at you, searching the depths of his hood and his sensual lips for some trace of familiarity. “Something tells me I might,” you snarl at him. His lips part, and a pink tongue swipes them. There’s something… desperate about the way he does it. Your stomach clenches, and a heat seeps into the deepest parts of you as you watch him.

He calls your name gently then, seeking to placate you. The Exarch comes to his feet quickly, reversing the roles of power with his clear fulm over your stature. He drops your wrist and strokes your hair gently, brushing strands away from your upturned face. There’s something unexpectedly tender about the motion, and tears prick at your eyes as you watch him. “Come,” he beckons. You tell yourself you won’t follow him, but he places a gentle hand at your shoulder and guides you to your bed. Gently, he pushes you down onto it, then moves to pull your blanket off your shoulders. Your state of undress must be painfully obvious, but he haplessly ignores it as he settles the blanket around you and tucks you in with gentle, warm, lingering touches. 

“Stay here, warrior,” he murmurs to you, “and I’ll prepare you a sleeping draught for the night. The morning will come and you’ll be better prepared to face this inexorable duty you have been saddled with.”

“I don’t want a sleeping draught,” you tell him sullenly.

“And what do you want, my dear?” He strokes your hair again, fingers tangling in your hair. The endearment is unexpectedly sweet, and tears swell in your eyes again. You blink them away furiously.

You are torn between anger and desperation as you reach up and tug his head down to yours. You don’t know why you do it. Perhaps you’d simply been staring at those sensual lips for far too long, and sleep has addled your mind beyond recognition. You’re used to getting your way in love; gender and sex aside, no one has ever refused your affections. You slant your lips across his and are shocked at the unexpected way he returns your kiss. There is a possessive quality to the way he plunges his tongue into your mouth, grabbing your shoulders with unexpected strength. Reactionary, you reach up to stroke his cheek, but as soon as you do, this kiss is over, and he grabs your wrist with the same power as before.

“This will only happen one way,” he tells you. “I will blindfold you and truss up your wrists. If you try to escape, I’ll be gone before you can see me. I will do… _anything_ you ask of me, but you cannot see my identity.” 

“What if I say no?” you whisper.

“I will make no mention of this night. It will be as if it never happened,” he assures you. “The choice is entirely yours, but the terms are my own.” 

You linger for a moment, turning over the possibility in your mind. It is _implicit_ what he will do to you if you agree. And despite not knowing this man’s identity, only knowing him for a few days, the unsteady quality of your trust in him… there is a true, burning affection within you for him, and a curiosity that gives way to lust as you stare at his shadowy features. 

Finally, you nod, and present your wrists to him with an upturned gaze. 

He exhales sharply, then sets about his work.

He removes the scarlet sash from his robe and ties it securely about your eyes. All you can see is a deep red haze. With a soft cord of rope fetched from your pack, he holds your arms up and lashes your wrists together in a surprisingly secure knot. You test it cautiously, and find it unyielding. It is not a knot for simple loveplay; he truly means to contain you. 

“Simply say ‘umbral’ and I will untie you,” he tells you softly. 

You nod numbly, and with that, he pushes you onto the mattress and kisses you with a fury.

It is all you can do to return his kisses as good as you’re given with your bonds. You long to wrap your arms around him, feel under that damned hood, under his stifling robes, but all you can do is return each of his lovesick kisses with the same fervor, relying on tongue and teeth to do the talking. 

“How I’ve _wanted_ …” he whispers to you, gnawing your earlobe with unexpected harshness. “you are more beautiful than all the tales could have ever told, warrior. And to have you here, all my own for the taking…” He rakes a hand through your hair, biting into your shoulder as you cant your hips up towards his. “There is much I’ve hidden from you,” he tells you between kisses, “too much, all told. But my affections are true.”

For some unknown reason, you trust what he says, nodding numbly against him. He rucks your tunic above your head, careful to leave your nose and mouth unhindered, and asails your chest with a thousand harsh kisses, each more hungered and desperate than the last. You’d classify it as rough if not for the unexpected sweet words he lavishes into your skin. “ _Beautiful… perfection… no one has ever…. no one ever will…_ ” There is a devoutness in his words that go straight to your head, leaving you lightheaded and scorching hot between your thighs. Your hips writhe against him, and he places a steady hand on your hip to ease you, then digs his fingers into the flesh of your thigh and buttock. You gasp, arching up into him for relief.

“I’m going to wreck you,” he promises, trailing hot, sticky kisses down the plane of your belly, “I have spent far, _far_ too long wanting you, warrior…”

He reaches your pantalettes and mouths at your apex through the thin fabric. You yelp, back arching off the bed, and with the patience of someone who has lived over a hundred years, laps gently at you, leaving scorching hot kisses across your thighs, laving bruising lovemarks into your skin. “I won’t dare mar your skin for others to see,” he tells you against your soft, yielding flesh, “but here… here you won’t forget this night.”

“Marks aside, I don’t think I’ll soon forget this night—!” you gasp, drifting into a squeal as he yanks down the pantalettes and captures your core with his mouth. He grabs your hips bodily and shifts your thighs over his shoulders, you hear him kneeling on the ground as he commits himself to the task ahead. You squeeze your thighs tentatively; you can feel soft hair between them, and the smooth plane of his crystalline cheek on one side and the very human flesh on the other. 

It is a torture unto itself to be pleasured and bound so ruthlessly. You cannot cover your mouth to disguise your cries, nor clutch at the bedclothes for purchase; as he dips into you with lithe tongue and ravishes you with lips and teeth, you chant his title over and over: “ _Exarch… fuck… please… oh, by the Twelve…_ ” He dips two fingers into your core and you yelp, moaning in desperation as he pumps them into you. 

“Yes, that’s it,” he coaxes you, “my good girl, my warrior… what would they think, seeing you come undone like this for me? Letting yourself be fucked by a man you don’t even know… oh, but that’s what does it for you, does it not?”

“Yes,” you plead, “yes, please, _please…_ ” 

He bends down to suck at your pearl then, laving the sensitive node with a careful tongue, accompanied by a third finger entering you. He is ruthless, and your hips buck off the mattress to meet his touch. The climax, a slow-burning coil, overtakes you, and there is nothing to stop the shout that escapes your lips, writhing against his torturous mouth as you spin out of control. You are dazed and slack as he rides out your climax, whispering gentle words of assurance as you come down from the heights of orgasm.

“Exarch,” you plead, biting your lip.

“Mm?” Twelve forfend, the man is _licking you clean_ from your climax, and before you can finish your plead, he kisses you thoroughly, your musky taste on his mouth, and he pushes a crystalline finger into your lips when he pulls away. Weakened, you suck on it, wrapping your tongue around him and delighting in the sharp exhale as he undoubtedly watches you.

“I want you,” you whisper, shuddering as his hands slide down the slender slope of your waist. 

“Oh, my love, but you’ve had that all along,” he murmurs. But while his words are sweeter than any lover’s before, he turns you over and re-trusses your wrists behind your back to be more comfortable. He hikes up your ass, leaving you exposed and all his for the taking. His hands linger at your cheeks, spreading them, squeezing. “You were beautiful before, but _this_ …” he licks a wet stripe up your center and your shriek is barely stifled by the pillow. Your makeshift eye covering has slipped off, but you knew it was his intention. Pinned as you are, you have no chance of twisting your neck to catch his appearance. 

“Oh, _yes,_ ” you cry he brushes his member against your apex, slicking himself with you. In your delirium, you’d missed him casting aside his robes and taking himself out. If you could see behind yourself, you’d undoubtedly see his identity laid bare to you, lost in pleasure and desperation. It occurs to you he probably expects you to imagine any sort of person pleasuring you,Aymeric’s gentle face and Hien’s handsome features swimming before you. You have no doubt, no matter how profane a name that came off your tongue, he’d assent to the claim. But they hold nothing for you. You want _him_ and _him_ alone, despite the fact that all you've seen of him, those strong arms, one spoken and one crystalline, and those lips that curve around half-told secrets with mastery only seen by an Ascian, you want them all the same. 

He sheathes himself in you to the hilt with a snap of his hips, hands wrapped around your waist hard enough to bruise. You yelp, not with pain, but shock and oversensitivity.

“Oh, my love, have I hurt you?” He murmurs, stroking your back placably. Fully in you, he’s stone still, your insides clenching around his considerable girth. There’s a delicious fear accompanying being fucked by something you’ve never seen yourself. You can feel him shaking around and _in_ you, waylaid only by the self-control of an impossibly long life. 

“You’ll have more to worry about than your secrets if you don’t fuck me as promised, Exarch.” you gruff at him despite the indignity of your situation. 

A sharp bark of laughter takes him; he leans down to press soft kisses into your shoulder and the sensitive back of neck. He thrusts, long and achingly slow, into you, and you squirm against him as his breathing grows labored. As you cry out, overtaken by him, his pace grows more rapid, the wet obscene sounds from the act embarrassing you, along with your unhindered cries. In the daylight, you would have furiously denied the complete pleasure of being taken from behind by a man you hardly know would give you, but beneath the cover of blessed darkness, all you can do is _feel_ , and the feeling is enough to overtake you. 

Your second climax is coming, swift and harsh; he can feel you coiling around him and he moves a hand to your front, pressing at your clit with unexpected fervor and skill. _He’s wrecking me,_ you decide. _No one is ever going to be as good as him, by the Twelve._

You think you’ve reached your height, and then he begins to speak sweet profanities into your ear with harsh, ragged breath. “You look absolutely beautiful, bent over for me like this, taking my cock so well… I wonder if you’ll cry when you finish? Oh, you’d look so lovely, wrecked and fucked the way you deserve to be, worshipped the way you have been deserving all along… If I finish on your face and breasts, I wonder, would you let me? Let a man you’ve never met humiliate you like that? _Mark_ you as his?” His pace stutters, waiting for your response.

“Please,” you hear yourself beg. You have _never_ begged anyone like this, even under pain of death, and this man brings it out of you with little more than bonds and pleasure. “Please, Exarch, please… I want… I’m…” 

He hums in satisfaction, burying himself deep in you, rubbing you ruthlessly until you come _again_ with a wordless cry, writhing in his arms as one possessed. Damn him, you _do_ cry, hot tears leaking down your cheeks with overstimulation and the faintest sting of humiliation. When you wind down, he pulls you up and pushes you off the bed and onto your knees. Bound so, you have no choice but to allow him to bring you to your knees before him. Clutching the sash around your eyes with one hand, and himself with the other, the Crystal Exarch finishes with your name on his lips like a prayer and spends himself over your open, bruised lips and bare lovemarked breasts. You lick his seed from your lips, feeling them mingle with the tear-tracks on your cheeks. Wrecked, indeed.

He swoops down to kiss you soundly, shocking you into submission. It is not the half-grateful kiss of a man who has just had his way; it is the kiss of someone who, all pretenses and secrets aside, loves you. It terrifies you more than his anonymity. 

He leaves you kneeling there, and you half-wonder if he’ll leave you bound on your knees, but he returns with a warm scrap of cloth, cleaning your tears and his seed from your face and chest, punctuating his touches with soft kisses. He removes your blindfold, and you’re disappointed to see him once again dressed and covered, but his lips are unmistakably lovestung and swollen with abuse. He spins you ‘round and takes off your bindings quickly. “I apologize, Warrior of Darkness,” he says gently. “I… there is too much at stake, to allow my feelings for you to cloud my duty.” 

You nod numbly, knowing all too well. You move your arms forward and stretch them out; there is a languidness in all your bones. He massages the welts around your wrists, frowning at them. “I didn’t think they’d leave such marks,” he mutters. Braids like fire are imprinted on your wrists, and several fingertip-shaped bruises decorate your arms. 

“I have bracers,” you assure him, smiling wickedly at him. He has the good humor to duck his head in embarrassment. 

Then he dresses you, even going so far to fetch clean pantalettes from your dresser and helping you step bonelessly into them. Then, he sweeps you into his arms and back into your bed, righting the blanket around your neck and shoulders, sweeping your hair into regularity and kissing your forehead gently. 

“Good night, my warrior,” he whispers. “Sleep well, my dear, dreamless and deep. Think not on machinations, and wake tomorrow to a new day.” 

You are dozing before he leaves your quarters, sated beyond words, yet filled with a hunger you know not words for. 

**Author's Note:**

> who knew the term for blindfold fetishes looks so much like amaurot? lol.  
> [my carrd.](https://thepapernautilus.carrd.co/)  
> edit: now with a longfic, ["stars, hide your fires."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27473815/chapters/67173265)


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